A Gathering of Widowmakers (The Widowmaker #4) (5 page)

"The kid's already put one Jefferson Nighthawk in the hospital. What makes you think he won't do it to me?"

"Who else is there?" said Kinoshita.

"Let me ask you a simple question, Jefferson," said Sarah. "If someone who had no reason to lie told you that a man you were about to kill was innocent, would you kill him before trying to find out the truth? If the answer is yes, then you're right and you should stay here. If the answer is no, then you'd better pay a visit to Jason Newman and learn what you can from him, and then find Jeff and correct the errors you made when you were training him."

Nighthawk uttered a sigh of defeat. "All I ever wanted was to live out my life in peace and obscurity. You wouldn't think that was so fucking hard to do, would you?"

"It isn't, for normal men," said Kinoshita. "But you're the Widowmaker."

Sarah stared at him with compassion and regret. "I think it's probably time to stop pretending that you were ever anything else."

5.

The ship touched down on Giancola II, and Nighthawk and Kinoshita emerged.

"Ugly world," commented Nighthawk, surveying the bleak, barren brown landscape.

"Thank you," said Kinoshita.

"What for?"

"Those are the first words you've spoken to me since we took off."

"I wasn't saying them to
you
."

They entered the spaceport. Kinoshita kept his distance. Nighthawk had been in a black mood for the entire trip. Kinoshita knew, or at least thought he knew, that the old man wasn't going to shoot the messenger, but he was making the messenger very uncomfortable.

Nighthawk approached the robot/kiosk, tossed his passport disk on a counter, and let it read his fingerprints and retina.

"Welcome to Giancola II, garden spot of the Inner Frontier," said the robot. "Name, please?"

"You read my passport. You know my name."

The robot froze for a few seconds, then spoke again. "There is a problem, Mr. Nighthawk. You have identical fingerprints and retinagrams to a Jefferson Nighthawk who was here earlier this month, yet you are not he. Your ages and passports are different."

"Is my passport in order?" asked Nighthawk.

"Yes."

"Then the problem is yours, not mine. Let me pass through."

"Are you here for business or pleasure?"

"Pleasure."

"May I inquire—"

"You may not," said Nighthawk. "I have no legal obligation to tell you what I plan to do, as long as I'm not here on business."

"You may pass," said the robot. "Welcome to Giancola II." It rattled off the temperature, time of day, gravity, atmosphere content, and acceptable currencies, but Nighthawk was out of earshot before it was halfway done.

Kinoshita went through a different booth and fell into step behind Nighthawk as they made their way to the exit. An empty aircar glided up and Nighthawk got in, followed by Kinoshita.

"Hospital," Nighthawk instructed the aircar.

"It's the Admiral Miguel Riccardo Cordobes Memorial Hospital," said Kinoshita.

"Is there more than one on a planet like this?"

"No."

"Then be quiet."

They rode across the dreary landscape in silence. The aircar reached the city limits in five minutes, and pulled up to the small hospital in another five. Nighthawk walked up to the reception desk and learned the location of the clone's room. Then he and Kinoshita took an airlift to the fourth level, and walked down the hall until he came to the proper number.

Jason Newman was asleep. There were tubes connected to his arms and legs, he was connected to an artificial spleen and liver, a dozen machines controlled his breathing, heart rate, blood pressure, and other vital functions. They hadn't fitted him out with a new prosthetic hand yet—in fact, Nighthawk noted, he'd need not just a hand but a wrist and most of a forearm—and the place where his ear had been was covered with opaque ointments to promote healing of the burned flesh before any attempt to restore his hearing could be initiated.

"Jesus!" muttered Nighthawk. "How did you keep him alive long enough to get him here?"

"Jefferson Nighthawks have remarkable vitality," said Kinoshita.

"I've never been shot up this badly."

"You managed to live with a disfiguring disease for more than a century."

"I was frozen for all but a couple of years." Nighthawk studied the clone's face. "He doesn't look like me at all. The cosmetic surgeon who worked on him did a good job."

"He could afford it," answered Kinoshita. "He sent me to Deluros VIII with five million credits to keep you frozen, and kept the rest."

"He deserved it," said Nighthawk. "He overthrew a government with a force of, what, thirty?"

"There were a few more than that."

"And how many of the enemy were there?"

"Counting the military? Four million, give or take."

"That's a hell of an accomplishment," said Nighthawk. "I know that—and Jeff knew it. I told him about both the clones that came before him." He frowned in puzzlement. "So why the hell wouldn't he believe a man like this?"

A golden-fleeced nurse from the distant world of Karimon entered just then, adjusted various levels of the medications that were being dripped into Newman's system, tinkered with his oxygen supply, and left without a word.

Nighthawk continued staring at the sleeping clone. Finally he spoke again. "Is he all alone?"

"It's a private room."

"I mean, has he got anyone you should contact, anyone who should know he's here?"

"There's a woman, Cassandra Hill. I don't know if they're married, but she'd be the one," said Kinoshita. "The problem is, I don't know his home world, so I don't know how to contact her. He was in no condition to talk when I left Giancola. Maybe I can find out."

"I wouldn't count on it," said Nighthawk. "Look at him. He might go a week or a month without waking up." He went to a communicator and raised the desk. "This is Jefferson Nighthawk. Scan my retina and match it against my ID at the spaceport. I want all of Jason Newman's medical bills charged to my account at the Bank of Goldenhue."

"Working . . . done," replied a mechanical voice.

"And send up a nurse."

"The nurse was just there, and it not due again for another ninety minutes."

"Send one anyway."

"Is there an emergency?" asked the voice as Nighthawk deactivated the communicator.

A tripodal Mollutei nurse entered the room a moment later, walked over to the bed, looked at Newman, then checked all the machines.

"He seems fine," it said. "What's the problem?"

"Wake him up."

"Why?"

"Because I told you to."

He was a man in his mid-sixties, and he was unarmed. The nurse was an alien who heard his voice through the translating mechanism of a t-pack. And yet suddenly he was no longer Jefferson Nighthawk, but had become the Widowmaker again, with an air of menace about him that transcended language and species. The nurse immediately began fiddling with the various machines that Newman was attached to, adjusting the flows of oxygen and adrenaline, and finally stepped back.

"He will awake shortly."

"Will he be in much pain?" asked Nighthawk.

"Certainly not," said the nurse haughtily. It rattled off a trio of pain medications that were being dripped into Newman's body.

"Good. Show my companion how to put him back to sleep when I'm through talking to him."

"The system will keep him awake for five minutes, no longer," said the nurse.

"All right, leave us now," said Nighthawk.

The nurse glared at him and walked to the door.

"One more thing," said Nighthawk before the nurse could make its exit.

"Yes?"

"I would be very angry if you were to report this or attempt to hinder me in any way," he said. "Am I making myself clear?"

"Yes, sir," said the nurse, her anger turning to fear. She ducked out before Nighthawk could say anything further.

Nighthawk got to his feet and stood at the foot of the bed. Newman's eyelids flickered in about half a minute. He groaned once, then seemed to make a physical effort to remain silent as he carefully adjusted his position. Finally he opened his eyes.

"Welcome back," said Nighthawk.

Newman stared at him for a long minute with a look of dawning recognition. "Sonuvabitch!" he rasped. Then, "I never thought we'd meet."

"Neither did I," said Nighthawk. "How do you feel?"

"I've been better." Pause. "That kid is
good
."

"That's what I've come to talk to you about."

"I haven't got much to say. I was better at twenty-two or whatever he is than I am at forty-three."

"But not smarter. Jefferson Nighthawks don't shoot Jefferson Nighthawks."

"He's not us," said Newman. Nighthawk looked puzzled. "I was born with your memories and experiences. Every one you ever had, six decades' worth, were crammed into my head before I woke up for the first time. I know every thought you ever had until five years ago; they were my thoughts until I started living my own life. Damned near cost me my life, too, because some of those memories were a century out of date. But this kid, he wasn't born with all your memories and thoughts. That was a mistake."

"I didn't want him carrying any extra mental or emotional baggage," said Nighthawk. "And I was around to train him. I'd been frozen when they made you and the other clone."

"I'd have done the same," said Newman. "After all, I'm you— or mostly you, anyway."

"They seem to want to keep you asleep, so I'll try to make this quick," said Nighthawk. "How certain are you that Pickett was innocent?"

"Jubal Pickett never killed anyone. Hell, he was accused of killing a man that I killed myself."

"What about the other eighteen?"

"I knew the man. He couldn't have done it."

"Did you ever tie him into a Neverlie machine?"

"I didn't have to. Everything he told me checked out."

"Did Jeff talk to you?" persisted Nighthawk. "Ask for proof?"

"The only proof I have is my testimony," said Newman. "That should have been enough for a man who shares my DNA."

Nighthawk was silent for a long minute. Finally he spoke. "I sent him out too soon. I've got to find him."

"And teach him to look for shades of gray?" suggested Kinoshita.

"There are no shades of gray when you're the Widowmaker," said Nighthawk.

"Then I don't understand," said Kinoshita.

"He's not going after the kid because he killed an innocent man," said Newman. "We've probably both killed innocent men along the way."

Kinoshita looked bewildered. "If that's not the reason . . . ?" he began.

"He shot a Jefferson Nighthawk," said Nighthawk. "Whether Jubal Pickett was guilty or not, he had a price on his head and the first three bounty hunters to go after him were dead. That was a judgment call, plain and simple. But right or wrong, you don't shoot another version of yourself. I made this kid the single most efficient killing machine in the galaxy. If he'll shoot his fellow clone, then the day will come when he'll shoot anybody." He paused. "I can't allow that. I'm going to have to find him and make sure he understands."

"And find a way to stop him if he doesn't want to learn," added Newman.

"It shouldn't come to that. He's like a son to me—more than a son. He knows I'm not his enemy. He has no reason not to listen, or to assume I'm misleading him."

"He's been on his own for a couple of years now," said Newman. "That's time enough to form his own opinions."

"He was created to take exactly the kind of man Jubal Pickett was supposed to be," said Nighthawk. "The Inner Frontier still needs the Widowmaker. I just have to make a few adjustments to the current model."

"You're making it sound easier than it's going to be," said Newman. "If you wait a couple of weeks, I'll go with you."

"A couple of weeks?" exclaimed Kinoshita disbelievingly. "You'll be lucky to be out of here in six months!"

Newman looked at Nighthawk. "He's wrong. You know how fast we recover and how much pain we can live with."

"Yeah, he's wrong," agreed Nighthawk. "But it's going to take them more than two weeks to grow you a new liver and spleen. Besides, it doesn't make any difference. I can't let the kid get any farther ahead of me if I'm going to catch up with him before he makes more mistakes. Two weeks, six months, it's all the same. I've got to leave today."

"If you haven't found him by the time I'm out of here . . ."

"I promise," said Nighthawk.

Newman turned to Kinoshita. "Cassandra's on Murchison III—"

"I'll send her a subspace message the second we get back to the ship," said Kinoshita.

"Let me finish," said Newman, his words starting to slur, his eyelids drooping. "Tell the hospital where she is, and have them contact her after I'm off the pain medication. No sense her coming all this way if all I'm going to do is sleep."

"I'll see to it," said Kinoshita.

"Thanks." He turned to Nighthawk. "I'm glad we finally met."

"So am I."

"When you find the kid, tell him . . ." Newman lost consciousness, his sentence unfinished.

"Tell him what, I wonder?" said Kinoshita.

"Probably that Jefferson Nighthawks don't shoot each other."

Kinoshita decided not to mention that that was precisely what Nighthawk was going to have to do if reason didn't work.

6.

"So how do we track him down?" asked Kinoshita as their ship left orbit and sped out of the Giancola system at light speeds. "Always assuming you're talking to me again," he added.

Nighthawk chose to ignore the remark about his anger. "You've been traveling with him for the better part of two years," he replied, walking to the galley and ordering the ship to serve him a beer. "You must know something about the way his mind words. Will he go after the biggest target or the closest?"

"Beats the hell out of me," answered Kinoshita, joining him in the galley. "There's no rhyme or reason to it. He goes after whichever one excites his imagination."

"And what excites it?"

"It's
your
imagination," answered Kinoshita defensively. "You tell me."